


Incredibly Simple and Very Destructive

by htebazytook



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Romance, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 03:28:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock understands the chemistry. That doesn't mean he approves of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incredibly Simple and Very Destructive

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of talking about feelings, basically. And like, neurochemistry, of course.

**Title:** Incredibly Simple and Very Destructive  
 **Author:** htebazytook  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Warnings:** none  
 **Disclaimer:** Pairing: John/Sherlock  
 **Time Frame:** Somewhere post 1.3 The Great Game and pre 2.3 The Reichenbach Fall  
 **Author's Notes:** Lots of talking about feelings, basically. And like, neurochemistry, of course.  
 **Summary:** Sherlock understands the chemistry. That doesn't mean he approves of it.

 

When John walks down the stairs into the kitchen, he doesn't always notice Sherlock lying motionless on the sofa right away.

John moves differently, in the mornings—his gait is heavier and more side to side, his eyes are puffy and lagging when he glances around. Unattractive cowlick where he'd slept funny. Grainy, monotonous quality to his usually modulating voice when he mutters things to himself unthinkingly like "Where'd I put that damn mug?" or "Shouldn't make cupboards so high up—'s stupid, stupid . . . " or "Pigeon in the microwave, well yes, of course there's a pigeon in the microwave, Sherlock, yes, it's all very normal . . ."

John turns toward the living room, coffee in hand and swaying sleepy steps and scratching at his ear absently. He notices Sherlock but isn't startled, just smiles vaguely like he isn't even aware of it, says, "Morning," in his gravelly morning voice.

This causes a series of quick conversations between Sherlock's synapses and he lets himself indulge in the warm, unsettled feeling that follows. It's okay as long as he doesn't do what his hormones insist is necessary to make the feeling go away. He watches John sit down in the armchair in slow motion, watches his smile dissipate until it's gone completely, and then he just watches some more.

Sherlock knows he's attracted to John. It's just chemistry. Doesn't mean anything, though—it's a simple reaction. It has to do with the way John carries himself and the speed at which he blinks and the timbre of his tiny little _mm_ 's of amusement. His face in profile and the fit of his slacks.

Of course Sherlock wasn't going to _do_ anything about it—for John, any further expansion on the chemistry they had would result in new and pointless expectations in their relationship like handholding, sickening terms of endearment, an unspoken obligation to be considerate of one another . . . None of that was quite Sherlock's style.

Also John insisted he was straight and went after any passing female with such desperation as to suggest he may be trying to prove something. Or maybe he was just that sexually frustrated. Sherlock doesn't pretend to understand that part of it, but he does know about the chemistry, and he also knows that it's one-sided, with John, so there was no reason to bother even entertaining the possibility.

Other people _were_ aware of body chemistry, on some level, but they failed to regulate it. Sherlock doesn't understand why nobody else can separate themselves from emotions—they did it with pain and hormones and food cravings. Well, they tried to.

"So," John says, leans forward in his chair. "What's on the agenda for today, then?" The cowlick in his hair really is quite dramatic, and Sherlock wants nothing more than to smooth it down, experiences this soft sharp influx of dopamine to marinate in just for awhile, because there's no harm in _appreciating_ the feelings that John induces in him, as long as he remembers they are essentially artificial. 

John wasn't as affected by dopamine levels as Sherlock was. He seemed to function mainly on adrenaline. You'd think he would be sick of such an excess of it considering his post traumatic stress disorder and very probably lingering depression, but Sherlock deeply suspected that John _liked_ feeling out of control, which is something that Sherlock couldn't quite wrap his brain around. 

Sherlock was always in control.

*

"You _have_ emotions, Sherlock, stop being stubborn. I'm not going to think less of you for admitting it."

"Oh, you don't understand," Sherlock says, catches John by the arm to steer him in the right direction. They're nearly run over crossing the street. "Do pay attention."

John shakes him off, shoves his hands in his pockets and hurries to keep up.

They push past smartly dressed women with overpriced sunglasses and well-off businessmen who clearly do very little for their money. It's rather gloomy, today, and the opulent glow of the shop windows swaths John oddly in half gold, half grey light. His hair looks a different color. 

Sherlock had thought John was through pestering him, but as they turn onto Clifford:

" _What_ don't I understand? Repression? I'm actually quite adept at it—I'm British, don'tcha know. Stiff upper lip and all that . . ."

Sherlock sighs, separates them for a moment by walking on the street side of a lamppost. "Of course I experience emotions. However unlike most people, I understand the chemistry behind them. Put simply, it's a tug-of-war between dopamine and adrenaline, and it becomes my task to either ignore them, or, if possible, to counteract one with the other. Now, dopamine is interesting because—"

"I _know_ how bloody dopamine works. It's not an honorary doctorate, you know."

"And when was the last time you found yourself explaining the intricacies of the limbic system to a patient?"

John throws his hands up. "Loads of times!"

"Oh really?"

"Jeah!"

"Hm."

Sherlock halts under a sleek glass awning to dig his phone out of his pocket. Brings it up and starts typing. In the background, John is nearly hit by a gaggle of fashionable people who are apparently blind to him. Sherlock has the presence of mind not to laugh at how dramatically indignant he looks. John leans more carefully against the building, folds his arms (guard up, now) and watches Sherlock scrolling through information on his phone. He doesn't seem to mind waiting, and he doesn't seem to mind being left in the dark, which is odd, because Sherlock would be frustrated by both.

After a few minutes, John says, as though he's fed up with trying to word it nicely:

"There is something off about you, you know. It's probably just the way your brain works, but you must see there is clearly something not normal going on, there. Most highly intelligent people do at least _attempt_ to be nice to the rest of us unworthy peons."

"I don't value disingenuous pleasantries with idiots. It does not automatically follow that there is something inherently wrong with me. Stop . . . _diagnosing_. I assure you it's a waste of time."

"I'm not diagnosing you, I'm just saying your behavior could be beyond your control. It doesn't bother me, it's just . . . okay, maybe I am diagnosing, a bit. But I think you'll find you spend most of your time diagnosing other people, so someone really ought to return the favor."

"Ugh." Sherlock locks his phone and stows it in his pocket. " _Why_ does there have to be something fundamentally different about my body chemistry? Has it ever occurred to anyone that I _choose_ be the way I am, that I _like_ it?"

"Probably not," John says. It's nonchalantly rude in tone, but his eyes say _amused_ or perhaps, _It's occurred to me, obviously_. This thought triggers something warm and suspiciously affectionate in Sherlock, which is probably just a variant of the sexual attraction, so he just puts it aside.

"Come on," Sherlock says, annoyed by the lingering influence of dopamine that renders his voice too soft. Clears his throat and stops looking at John, which usually helps. "The gallery's a few streets up."

*

Sherlock sits down across form John in the café for their rendezvous.

"Took your time," John says, doesn't sound particularly annoyed. He brings a spoonful of soup up to his lips to blow across.

"Of course I did. This wasn't anything impor . . . " A waitress appears out of thin air and sets a plate down in front of him. " . . . tant. What the hell is this."

John peers. "Looks like a turkey sandwich. Had trouble deducing that, did you?" He returns to his soup.

" _Why_ is it a turkey sandwich."

John shrugs. "You'd feel a lot better if you ate more."

"I've _told_ you, it slows—"

"Tryptophan."

"I . . ."

"Huh. Thought neurochemistry was your thing."

Sherlock glares at John as he turns his attention back to his food. And because no further conversation seems forthcoming, Sherlock eats half the sandwich just to pass the time.

He feels rather calmer after, but that's just chemistry.

So, John had thought about Sherlock's unconventional (and better) way of dealing with emotions, and had attempted to speak the same language. 

Sherlock likes this, and it's strange that such a small thing as John understanding something he didn't exactly approve of, just for Sherlock's sake, should give him such a high.

Sherlock looks out the window and thinks while John continues eating. It took him a ridiculously long time to eat anything, despite knowing that Sherlock might decide to up and leave at any moment. Outside there's a tree just starting to get its leaves back after the winter, tentative and pale green. It's a warm day, and there are people loitering on the pavement, holding their coats and laughing about nonsense. In the shop across the street young women try on handbags even though they already have them and a couple gets caught in the island in the middle of the street and they laugh and cling. This is the sort of thing that makes other people happy, apparently.

John had translated 'happy' into Sherlockian and given him a dose of dopamine. He'd wanted to make Sherlock feel good.

"John. Can I ask you a question?"

"Erm. Sure." So suspicious, those eyebrows.

"How would you define our relationship?"

John laughs, starts smiling through his words like he does whenever he's not keen on the conversation. "Friends?"

"No, that's not it . . . "

"Uh, yes it is."

"No," Sherlock repeats. This isn't what friendship feels like.

"Why do we have to be more than friends? Why does everything have to be romantic subtext? That _is_ what you're getting at?"

"By romantic, you mean sexual." The sexual aspect was besides the point — it was just chemistry. 

John laughs, still smiling. Sherlock wonders why he's so uncomfortable. "What's brought this on, exactly?"

"You're trying to trick me into a false sense of contentedness with food."

"That would be a yes. I don't know if you know this, but you're much less cranky if you consent to eating actual food like a normal person. You . . . become . . . _happier_."

Sherlock psh's. "That's not happiness; that's just a chemical reaction."

"Oh reall—you can't redefine emotions as handy neurochemicals to simplify them for yourself. That doesn't work."

"Why not? It _does_ work."

"Well, _because_ , Sherlock, emotions aren't about whatever biological responses they induce—they're about what causes them. Chemical reactions don't just spontaneously _happen_ . . . "

"Actually—"

"No, shut up. You can't just ignore the causes of what you feel. That's not the same as understanding."

"Get that line from your therapist?"

John just lifts his hands in surrender and stands to leave. Sherlock knows he's crossed a line, but he also knows John will cool off eventually.

"It's not just about ignoring," Sherlock says. John turns to him while struggling into his jacket, raises his eyebrows— _That a fact?_ "I can control my mood in this way. In fact, if people would only make themselves more aware of the way their fickle little brains work, they could avoid depressive moods altogether. It isn't difficult—it's just chemistry." 

John laughs shortly. "Don't you think if people could just turn off depression like a tap that they, I dunno, _would_?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "They just don't try—"

"Nah, I think they do," John interrupts, rather vehement. "And I think you're wrong. You are _wrong_."

Sometimes Sherlock wonders if John _likes_ getting upset as a result of caring too much—if he was able to turn that sick, frantic feeling into something he got high on and craved and kept going back to, like the release of endorphins from physical pain.

John doesn't move at first, keeps his eyes fastened on Sherlock like he's waiting for him to agree, which of course doesn't happen. After a minute of blinking disapprovingly he pushes past Sherlock and leaves the café, leaves Sherlock with the bill. And Sherlock smiles a bit, which is probably not good, but he does rather like it when John refuses to be a pushover. Little shot of guilt-tinged chemicals that he savors before throwing some notes on the table and leaving too.

*

Really the aspect of it that Sherlock likes the best is the give-and-take of reward. The longer he can prolong the rush of dopamine, the greater the payoff. However, the anticipation was far more delicious than the reward itself.

Solving cases quickly wasn't the point—the point was managing adrenaline against the creeping waves of reward that sought to soothe and remind him that this was brilliant, this was exhilarating, amazing, this was the goal and he ought to be relishing the feeling of it. But if he gave in to that he'd lose the anticipation, and no swift chemical payoff could ever compare to the squirming, delighted feeling of being in the moment and using his knowledge perfectly and impressively. The resulting intellectual satisfaction, afterward, that rode on the eventual release of endorphins was far more lasting than the endorphins themselves. And he couldn't achieve that if he was being distracted by good feelings shooting between synapses, all the time.

It's similar with John. Sherlock knows that the chaos of neurochemicals that came with sex were passing points of pleasure, only. They couldn't possibly compare to the anticipation, the notion of wanting him in such a purely physical way. The physical wasn't all that impressive, to Sherlock, precisely because of its brevity. The intellectual lasted. It made much more sense to focus on that, instead. He didn't understand why other people couldn't grasp this.

John is leaning against a snack kiosk near the entrance to the park, arms folded and people watching. Sherlock wonders if he's practicing reading them the way Sherlock does. He hopes so. John was really very good at picking up skills when he put his mind to it.

As Sherlock approaches, he notices things. John's wearing his leather jacket to battle the bite of chilly dampness in the wind. He's got mud on his shoes, so he's already been walking through the park and has come from across town after errands or meeting someone.

And Sherlock notices other things.

John turns his head away from him, and the strain of his neck and the look of his jaw and the way his hair shifts is nothing but facts, but it still instigates a reaction in Sherlock, and it could've been dopamine, maybe, that anticipation of an elusive, fleeting reward, but _this_ . . . Sherlock simply doesn't have a word for this—this breathlessness that settles in his chest and makes him want to cry out or maybe just cry. It's _absurd_. Luckily, he is quite able to ignore it. It's just chemistry, no matter that he can't quite categorize it.

"What are you so cheerful about?" John asks suspiciously.

"Dopamine," Sherlock says. He inclines his head to get John to follow him, which works nicely. "You should try it. I know you prefer adrenaline, but dopamine does have its benefits."

John sighs from beside him. "Please stop referring to catecholamines like they're synonymous with actual feelings."

But feelings _weren't_ actual, was the thing—they weren't real, and they certainly couldn't be trusted.

Sherlock opens his mouth—

"Don't," John preempts, points at a building up ahead that looks like it's made of driftwood. "Think that's it—'Inn the Park', is it? And good Lord, it's got a snowflake sign, to boot."

Sherlock snorts. " _Winter in the park_ , indeed. Terrible. God, I hate riddles. Why do people bother with them?"

"Just the ordinary person's attempt at cleverness, I suppose. You wouldn't understand, of course."

"And you’re a riddle expert, are you?" Sherlock memorizes the building, the loitering waitstaff's faces, the subtle crush of tire tracks through the new grass. They're getting closer to solving this one, and Sherlock breathes in slowly to ride out a lovely rush of anticipation. It led to nowhere, of course, but that only made it all the more potent. "Got it. Moving on."

"Indeed I am," John says, catching up. "A riddle expert, I mean."

"Mm. Been pitted against many formidable opponents in a battle of ordinary wit, have you?"

"That _is_ the way of it, yes. I've got a little gold trophy and everything."

There's a higher concentration of people, ahead, where the path sidles up to the pond, all of them congregating around the benches and exchanging empty pleasantries while unattended children skip stones out over the water.

It's richly aromatic here on the cusp of springtime, distant daffodils and soil and the vague stagnant smell of water, but John seems compelled to fill the silence: "You know, it is _slightly_ more complicated than dopamine and adrenaline forming some sort of yin and yang."

"Yes, but I'm only focusing on what's relevant."

"Right, uh huh. You know, it is _slightly_ more complicated than dop—"

"You're really _not_ amusing like this, John. Do shut up."

John does as he's told. Sherlock might like that in an intellectual sense, too, but the little biological rush is still nice.

They pass two figures feeding the ducks, which is notable because nobody else is, and in fact nobody else seems to be paying them any attention, at all. It was like the world just wheeled around them in their own odd, duck feeding existence. The one in sunglasses who looks like the worst sort of yuppie mutters something to the other one, who gets that look on his face that John gets when he's trying not to be amused by something rude.

"Do real people _actually_ feed ducks, anymore?" John muses.

"So it would seem."

*

They pop over to Scotland Yard because it's more convenient than going all the way home, and anyway John often won't shut up unless Sherlock includes Lestrade in his process with some regularity. After Sherlock's finished filling Lestrade in, he finds John in the hallway, facing away from him with his arms folded—which is odd because this is one of the few places John has little reason to have his guard up. The back of John's neck twists at a captivating angle as a result of his leaning against a wall, and Sherlock has to push down sudden, chemical impulses which are strangely strong given how mundane a moment this is.

"I think I get it now," Donovan says, sidling up to John uninvited, and Sherlock figures that Sally sourface Donovan lurking in the shadows all the time may be the reason for John's wariness. "You actually _enjoy_ being his little Velcro dog."

"Seems so," John says, straightening up. "And it's clear you enjoy being a stuck up bitch. So, there you go."

Sherlock wonders if John is always this unchecked when Sherlock's not around. Probably he felt obligated to balance out Sherlock's attitude, most of the time.

Donovan stares John down, unruffled. "You're getting more and more like him, you know. Every day. I only hound you about this for your own good, you know. I've seen people, loads of them, cast aside by him like they were nothing."

John looks out the window, apparently studying the brickwork of the neighboring building with an intensity he normally reserved for terribly important football broadcasts ( _It's the Big Game, Sherlock, come on!_ ).

"John," Donovan says, hand on his shoulder. "You can't keep putting yourself through this—"

He shakes her off. "I'll do whatever I please, thanks."

She sighs. It's odd to see her face _not_ contorted in a sneer. "He doesn't even _have_ feelings, believe me. He can't—" 

"None of your bloody business, is it?"

"Sergeant," Sherlock greets, and John doesn't flinch in surprise, although he does look up at him with an unguarded expression Sherlock can't quite decipher.

John's impressive collection of facial expressions, if nothing else, was enough to keep a Sherlock interested. You never knew when one would pop up, rather like a roll of the dice. In fact he couldn't consistently predict John's reactions, in general. Sometimes John would get wound up about the most miniscule things—shopping or Sherlock's callousness or something incidental like that. But other times he'd shut up and restock the fridge and smile at whatever inappropriate thing had come out of Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock didn't know what this current expression was, however. But it made him anxious, and Sherlock needed to counteract the chemistry of that as soon as possible. "Let's be off," he says, and John bumps into Donovan a tad roughly when he follows.

Once they're a good ways down the hall, Sherlock says, "I need some dopamine," because he doesn't know what else to say, and usually people just make obvious observations when that happens, such as _Lovely weather we're having_ or _God I'm hungry_.

"You honestly just limit your understanding to, what, the rewards system? Getting high off of whatever?" Still residual anger in his voice.

"I told you — I don't _need_ to remember the rest. It isn't relevan _t_." Sherlock is still thinking about John with Donovan. Did they do this all the time? Have little sidekick pow-wows while the grown ups were talking? Sherlock doesn't like the feeling this induces, but he's not really sure what to do to counteract it.

*

He doesn't know how John can stand it, just following him around and never knowing what came next, always balancing every new shock and never concentrating on something long enough to enter a flow state. Then again the unexpectedness did encourage that exhilarating, claustrophobic clench of adrenaline, which John clearly favored.

It must have been an unstable existence, but John must've had his own method of regulating it enough that he didn't just go insane. Sherlock _could_ regulate adrenaline, but he didn't normally have to because things simply didn't surprise him. 

The last time Sherlock had been overwhelmed by adrenaline had, ironically enough, been because of John. He'd been paralyzed with it, the terrifying catch of heartbeat in his throat, the narrowing of his mind to an awful lack of thinking and knowledge, until all that registered was an icy, blank moment with 'John' stamped across his short-circuiting brainwaves.

Thankfully, John had spoken and Moriarty had appeared and Sherlock had remembered about focusing, at least enough to coexist with the panic that he couldn't self medicate. He'd endured it, yes, but he'd been unable to ignore it.

Sherlock _loathed_ adrenaline.

"Emotions aren't inherently bad," John says, once they've got a taxi. "Okay, sometimes letting them take over is. But sometimes that's not a bad thing, either."

"Double standard."

The value people placed on the emotion was paradoxical to begin with. Apparently, it was good to let it show under certain circumstances, but under others it was weak or inappropriate. People needed to make up their minds.

The cabbie takes them on a bit of a detour, like it's some tourist-driven reflex. Out the window, the fountain in Trafalgar Square is dazzlingly, colorfully lit in a way that feels somehow obscene. Sherlock says, "Examples."

"Mm?"

"Examples of emotions not being inherently undesirable."

"I said 'bad', not undesirable. You can desire something that's bad for you." He gives Sherlock a pointed look that says, _Drugs and reckless behavior and shall I go on?_

Sherlock gives him an even more pointed look. It says, _You hang around me._

"Okay okay. Examples, is it? Emotion can be a motivator. I don't mean like, use your anger to channel the Dark Side of the Force or whatever . . . " John gets a better look at Sherlock's expression. "Never mind. Although anger and other negative feelings can be used as motivators if properly controlled . . . "

"Such as shooting a man in cold blood when someone who's barely an acquaintance looks about to kill himself?"

"No no, that wasn't a _negative_ emotion . . . "

"What was it, then?"

John looks at him, like looking at Sherlock just summons up emotions automatically. "Protectiveness. A sense of justice. Common decency. Fear."

"Fear doesn't count. It's not real thing."

"Oh," John laughs, annoyed, "I _beg_ to differ."

"Fear is always _of_ something. It isn't just a thing that you can experience independently."

"Right, well, the same applies to _all_ emotions, however determined you are to ignore that."

"Yes," Sherlock agrees, confused. "I have control over them, and am able to ignore—"

"God, you are really just _indescribably_ emotionally constipated . . ."

Sherlock enunciates: "I _understand_ how the illusion of emotion is created, at its _source_. Therefore I see little point in examining it more _closely_." 

"Because you wouldn't even know how to handle it if you did let yourself feel things properly," John says, looking out the window into dingy nighttime streetlight, now, in an effort to slow his increasingly quicker, increasingly angrier words. That was the problem with adrenaline — once you started, it had a tendency to get away from you.

" _Who_ decides what is and isn't proper?" Sherlock says. "It's very simple. The amygdala is conditioned through experience, and it reacts appropriately when presented with particular stimuli."

John sighs. His breath mists the window, and Sherlock fixates on the curve of his ear and the strain of tendon in his neck. John talks quieter: "There's something that doesn't function correctly in your amygdala then, or . . . or _something_. You _do_ have emotions." John says it like he's asking Sherlock to prove it.

Disappointment—that's what that nonharmonic note in John's voice is. Sherlock isn't particularly perturbed by John being annoyed or John being mean, but he doesn't much care for John being disappointed. The sound of it in his voice sucked up serotonin and left Sherlock having to seek another high to fix it with.

"Not in the usual sense," Sherlock says. He's conditioned him _self_. 

John snorts, unhappy. He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head and keeps looking out the window for the remainder of the taxi ride.

Sherlock doesn't usually consider the amygdala except to dismiss it. It was like an outdated piece of software that still went through unnecessary and since streamlined processes which he couldn't ever figure out how to uninstall, for good. It was like having a non-Mac-compatible file on your hard drive that only sort of opened and ran properly.

It simply wasn't Sherlock-compatible.

*

>   
>  **Do you have a theory  
>  on why we're like this?**   
> 

> We are many things, Sherlock.  
>  Do be more specific. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. He can _hear_ Mycroft's haughty drawl.

>   
>  **Emotionally constipated.**   
> 

> John call you that, did he?

> I would argue that we are  
>  merely emotionally advanced.  
>  We're lucky, in that way. 

>   
> **Yes, obviously.  
>   
> ** **But why?  
> **

> Oh but this is a momentous  
>  occasion! The great detective  
>  asking his annoying older  
>  brother for answers? 

Sherlock fights the urge to throw his phone against the wall. It really was difficult to keep adrenaline in check when his ire was so very justified.

>   
>  **I am asking your opinion.**   
> 

> You don't want my opinion.  
>  You want to refute and mock  
>  my opinion. 

The urge to key smash is strong indeed.

>   
> **If only I could delete you.  
>   
> ** **Then I wouldn't have to deal  
>  with emotional responses, at all.  
> **

> And John. 

Sherlock blinks at the text. He responds too quickly, before he can think about sounding bitingly witty enough:

>   
>  **What about John?**   
> 

> My goodness.  
>  You really are rather naive. 

Sherlock starts to type _What is that supposed to mean?_ but is interrupted:

> You've never been  
>  distraught enough about  
>  emotion to reach out to me,  
>  of all people, before.

> Moving into a new flat  
>  isn't the only thing  
>  that's changed for you,  
>  recently.

>   
> **Of course I think about  
> ** **it more because of him.  
> ** **He's constantly pestering  
>  me about it.  
> **

> It? 

Sherlock frowns. Mycroft's smug, knowing tone is clear; his meaning is less so.

>   
>  **Emotion.**   
> 

Then, because he feels very strongly that Mycroft is sneering at him from some posh office in Whitehall:

>   
>  **It's none of your business.**   
> 

> You contacted me.

And for the life of him, Sherlock can't remember why.

What to did it even _mean_ that Sherlock was attracted to John? It was just chemistry, of course, but there was still a reason. Theoretically, Sherlock saw qualities in John that he thought so highly of that he wished to perpetuate the species with them. Very, very theoretically. 

John wasn't anything special, certainly nothing that women flocked toward in droves, driven by some underlying evolutionary instinct for muscles or facial symmetry or what have you, like they did with the David Beckhams of the world. Oh, John had a certain, cuddly appeal. The girlfriends he texted or emailed seemed to resort to that and similar adjectives for him, which John tried to be nice about but clearly felt a bit emasculated by. 

John was an average height and an average weight, with average eyes and average lines on his face.

It was odd that John was so average, and Sherlock was still so interested.

It must have been down to personality traits: loyalty, morality, empathy, willfulness, the fact that he carried a gun, jumpers with the sleeves too long, puffy morning eyes and silent sadness and Sherlock's ability to make him laugh.

Why these sorts of things (silly, _common_ ) resonated with Sherlock on a subconscious level couldn't be made sense of, but it still addled Sherlock with dopamine and drew him to John practically against his will.

*

Sherlock snaps out of a flow state when he hears John on the stairs. John saunters diagonally down the steps in his odd lagging morning way, doesn't notice Sherlock at first as he sets about making coffee.

"You stimulate my amygdala."

John turns toward the sofa where Sherlock's sitting forward and staring. He blinks at him, as if willing Sherlock to say something less distressingly odd. This isn't a very fruitful endeavor, so he says, "Would you mind repeating that?"

"You stimulate my amygdala. I would like you to stop it, please."

"Yeah, okay, I'll get right on that, Sherlock, and oh, by the way _what the actual hell_?"

Sherlock regards him for a moment, then huffs, "It's _annoying_."

"Uggggggh why me. Why? Just . . . " John shakes his head. "God knows what this says about our relationship, but it may actually have been less strange of you to say something like 'You stimulate my libido'."

"John," Sherlock says carefully. "Do I stimulate _your_ —"

" _No_ ," John says firmly, smiles through his words. "No no. No. Ha, _no_."

Sherlock glares. "I don't think you needed to be quite _so_ emphatic."

"Well, you know, seems necessary with you, doesn't it?"

Sherlock doesn't mind that John is being like this——he's well aware that the attraction isn't mutual. It's just that John being like this _reminds_ him of it, that's all. Anyway it doesn't matter, because it's a purely physical attraction—Sherlock isn't _intellectually_ stimulated by John. That's absurd.

*

> Talking about feelings  
>  with your live-in PA?  
>  How touching. 

Apparently Mycroft has finally caught on that texting him was most likely to get a response.

>   
> **Talking about neurochemistry  
> ** ******and talking about feelings  
> ** **are quite different, Mycroft.  
> **

>   
>  **Bugged the flat again, have you?**   
> 

> Oh no, John called me.  
>  He was rather concerned  
>  about you, you know.

>   
> **Yes, he's unduly influenced  
>  by his adrenalin levels.  
> **

>   
> **Is there something you  
>  actually wanted?  
> **

>   
>  **Mycroft?**   
> 

*

There's a storm coming on. You can taste it in the air, see it in the frantic push and pull of the limbs of occasional trees. The scent of new, green things that mixes in with metallicy tarmac and the unmistakable, heady smell of rain. When Sherlock's able to get it from nature, the spread of dopamine through his system is syrupy slow and leaves him supremely relaxed.

They're walking down a narrow, cobbled street when Sherlock asks, "So, what did Mycroft say?" and stares at the street ahead. Sherlock doesn't have a _problem_ with looking people in the eye, but there are times he'd prefer not to. He's at least got to glance over and glimpse John's befuddlement, though.

To his credit, John only stammers for a second or two before accepting that Sherlock just knows these things and responding: "About what?"

"Me." Sherlock waves his hand vaguely. " _Emotion._ "

"Oh? Well, he says you haven't any, for one thing. Runs in the family, as I understand it."

"Tabula rasa."

John waits.

"Tabula rasa, environmental influence, nurture over nature, whatever you want to call it. Not strictly genetic. I'm thankful for our childhood conditioning, though. Makes things easier."

"Didn't realize you were such a John Locke enthusiast," John remarks. Sighs. "Sherlock, you _have emotions_. You're not _actually_ a psychopath. I mean, come on then, you can't honestly tell me you prefer constant, careful repression to just feeling things."

John is frustrated and focused on him. His eyes are awake and his body is tensed. Sherlock likes that he's caused this. He wants to exhaust every possible reaction he is able to produce in John. He wants this in a nameless, urgent way that's tangled up with affection and loathing and aggression and weakness.

"I would prefer not to feel . . . _feelings_ ," Sherlock says. "But I do. I've told you—the difference is that I don't let them overrule my logic."

John laughs. "Sometimes I wonder if you're just lifting actual Star Trek quotes."

"Star what?"

*

Sherlock thinks about his way of classifying emotions for several days. Not consecutively, but just during lulls in cases or while stuck in traffic and generally always when Anderson opens his mouth.

He plays bits and pieces of some of Bartók's dances (schizophrenic little snippets that go from achingly soft harmonics to hard, unyielding double stops to indulgently romantic melodies) to pass the time, and he thinks about the way it makes him feel—not proper emotions, but the wash of chemical feelings is like taking drugs or letting himself indulge in a positive mood for too long. It's difficult to let such feelings go unchecked, because he's so accustomed to reigning them in that he has little conception of what to do if they get away from him. It's a terrifying prospect, that he might not be able to regain control if he let anything slip quite so far. 

Everything he thinks about goes against what he does next, or rather, feels too compelled to do and is too ill equipped to stop himself. It's not long before that he puts his violin down and goes upstairs.

John's astonishment is rather precious.

" _Don't_ you knock? No, scratch that, _don't_ you understand that barging in on somebody in the shower is not okay?"

"This couldn't wait," Sherlock defends. John blinks wetly at him. Sherlock hmphs after a moment and starts pacing around the bathroom. "Romantic feelings aren't genuine. It's a dopamine reward, or a rush of adrenaline that propels you without thinking."

John doesn't say anything, obscured by the shower curtain from where Sherlock's standing. 

" 'Romance' is just a more civilized word for 'instinct'. It doesn't _mean_ anything."

Just silence and running water. 

"It's not that I feel 'romantically' toward you—it's just that every tiny, chemical instinct I might have gets gargantuan in my mind, later on, and it never goes away because I keep adding more chemicals to it which only reinforces that neural pathway until it becomes the default. It's not important that you are always nearby. It's that I know you will be there, even when I'm not paying attention—it's that I expect you to be there, and you are. And then if you suddenly weren't there, when I'd expected it, then that would be significant. The potential . . . the potential is more important than the realization. The realization is unnecessary. Therefore it isn't what one would consider 'romantic'. It's just potential, and it's not _real_."

From behind the curtain: "No feelings in all this, then."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm talking about how important you are to me— it has nothing to do with _feelings_. All I require is the sense of potential."

"So . . ." John peeks around. "You . . . _like_ unresolved sexual tension."

"Yes." Then, "Is that not normal?"

" _You're_ not normal." John's still mostly hidden behind the curtain, protective. "If you're playing the violin, don't you need to resolve the music?"

Reluctantly, Sherlock says, "Yes, but—"

"And when you're on a case, don't you need to solve it?"

" _Yes_ , but if you'd just listen—it's not _about_ the payoff, it's about the reward system stretching out over—"

"I don't care. _Are_ you going to kiss me, or can I go back to showering?" 

When Sherlock spins on his heel he finds that John's not looking at him, now, just studying the floor he's been dripping on.

"Yes." Sherlock hadn't meant to say that, but now he's committed . . . 

When John lifts his eyes Sherlock realizes belatedly it's because he's walked over to the shower and tilted his chin up and is about to kiss him. When he leans in to actually kiss him, John beats him to the punch decisively. His mouth is as hot and wet and as tantalizing as his skin.

Sherlock's abruptly dizzy, clutches at the shower curtain to balan—

It of course tears off the bar immediately — John catches him before he slips and gives himself a concussion, which ends with Sherlock stumbling somehow into the shower, too, pressed all up against naked John who's against the wall while too-hot water drenches Sherlock's clothes in short order. Kisses John again and John runs his hands up Sherlock's chest, sodden silk shirt clinging uncomfortably so Sherlock helps John with the buttons.

"This _is_ rather dangerous," John says, because he's just slipped and upset the kiss, anyway, so they might as well have a chat.

"Oh, yes," Sherlock says, dips his head to kiss water drops off of John's neck. "Precisely."

John laughs in a shuddering way, turns a heavy look on Sherlock and strains up to kiss his mouth again. 

Water seeps into Sherlock's hair like hot, massaging fingers, or maybe that was just John's actual fingers twisting in the curls at the base of his skull. Little rivulets cascade down Sherlock's face before splashing messily onto John's, occasionally flowing into his mouth in a way that compels Sherlock to follow with his tongue and drink it up.

" _Ugh_ , you should see yourself," John breathes. "You look like a model at some unapologetically sexual high-fashion photo shoot."

"That was oddly specific, John."

John plucks at Sherlock's clinging black shirt. The final buttons come undone and it sticks back to Sherlock's chest weakly. John's mouth falls open a bit, wet with shower water. Licks his lips. "Just . . . _ugh_."

John scrabbles with Sherlock's trousers, hands a bit shaky and slipping under the water, to boot. Sherlock watches, looks between John's intent face and his busy hands and back again and can't find his breath. He pushes John's hair back a bit because it's funneling a small river directly into his eyes. 

John finally manages to unbuckle Sherlock's belt, pushes his trousers and pants down in a flurry and the sounds of buckles and fabric are completely muted under the rush of the shower and the raw edge to John's breathing, which is now somewhere in the vicinity of Sherlock's ear because John's biting it and sucking on the lobe as he strokes Sherlock's cock. 

Sherlock groans and squirms his hand between them until he's wrapped his fingers around John's cock too, to which John makes a noise in his ear that isn't so much surprised as shamelessly lustful.

Sherlock has a lovely idea, then, nicks the nearest bottle of product and—

"No, wait, get the conditioner. It's better." John finds some, squirts a dollop into his hand.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

"Which I know because, er . . . _what_?"

"It's _my_ conditioner."

"Oh, right? Suppose I should use it on you, then . . ."

John spreads a ridiculous amount of the stuff over Sherlock's cock, and it's cool and smooth and then meltingly good when John curls his fingers around the shaft again and strokes him lazily, kisses him lazily under the unyielding water pressure.

Sherlock drops the shampoo carelessly, can't even remember whether he'd opened it, which is probably bad in case it spills and coats the tub, but the thing is that Sherlock actually _needs_ both hands to kiss John, right now—one to cup his jaw and tilt his head for kissing and one to jerk his cock ever faster in response to the urgent little noises John's making into Sherlock's mouth.

John breaks the kiss to say, " _God_ ," urges Sherlock closer by getting a leg up over his hip.

"Sorry, wrong number," Sherlock says, although it comes out less suave and more breathless.

John thrusts against him, cocks sliding deliciously by each other for a moment that makes them moan at a surprisingly sweet interval apart (major sixth?) so Sherlock licks at John's panting lips, licks into his mouth whenever possible, struggles to get a non-blurry look at John through the water running down his face—glimpses John's eyes shut tight in rapture, licking his lips so close that his tongue catches Sherlock's lips, too. Sherlock struggles to keep up, has to keep reminding himself to continue stroking him or John might lose that gorgeous, gratuitous flow state he's clearly wallowing in.

John pumps Sherlock's cock faster, more relentlessly, and oh, he's really trying to get Sherlock to . . . oh, he's getting so close, much too close . . . 

"No, wait, no, this is all wrong, this isn't enough."

John groans against Sherlock's neck. "Oh I really think you're wrong about that. Just don't stop . . . _shit_ . . ."

" _No_ , John, you don't under _stand_." Sherlock pushes away and John blinks at him, heavy-lidded and shockingly blue. "The endorphin release isn't enough. It's not sustainable. It's not legitimate. It's just che—"

" _God_ you are unbelievably stupid, sometimes," John says, kisses at his lips, bites the bottom one in afterthought. "That's _why you keep doing it_." He squeezes Sherlock's cock and Sherlock's head can't support itself, he's got to drop it to John's shoulder and moan about how artificially good it feels. "God yes, come on, Sherlock, fucking come _on_ . . ."

Sherlock feels it approaching, presses his head fruitlessly against the tile and gasps against John's shoulder, all bone and muscle and warm and wet. He thrusts into John's frantically working hand and somehow retains the presence of mind to match John's pace with his own. John gasps Sherlock's name, squirms and strains into the sensation and says, "Mmhm mmhm mmhm Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock . . ." and comes seconds after Sherlock's bit into his shoulder and done the same.

*

It's very simple, really. It's a muddled wash of chemicals and hormones, dopamine and oxy-things and whatever else . . . Sherlock doesn't care about the specifics, at the moment. He doesn't often get to the reward stage, and even though he worries a bit in the back of his mind about indulgence and unsustainability, mostly he just thinks it's lovely. And rather cheaper than cocaine.

Sherlock thinks this somewhere under than the more immediate stimuli of John panting and leaning against him with his wet hair sticking ticklingly to Sherlock's neck. The water from the shower continues to pound down on them, and it's long since gone cold. John's teeth chatter, and Sherlock retreats enough to turn the tap off. 

The bathroom floor is flooded, and the shower curtain has actually ripped, in places. There's still soap in John's hair. 

Sherlock is hardly aware that he is shivering as much as John until John knocks a towel down from the bar on the door and secures it around Sherlock's shoulders. It's half-soaked from the unbridled shower, but it's better then nothing, and anyway John's smiling fuzzily at him with darkened hair plastered to his forehead and water dripping from it so that there's shiny beads caught in his eyelashes. Sherlock bends to lick an errant droplet from John's upper lip and John _mm_ 's and kisses him softly.

"You keep doing it," Sherlock says.

"Sorry?"

"That's the trick to sustaining the feeling—you keep doing it?"

"Well, yes. In a general sense."

Sherlock pulls the towel tighter around his shoulders. "Sounds rather time consuming. And a waste of energy."

"Oh yes, it is," John agrees.

Sherlock can't read his expression, which is something that usually intrigues him, but now it summons anxious little pricks of adrenaline. He studies the rest of him for clues, but . . . "You have shampoo in your hair."

John shrugs, urges Sherlock closer. "You have come on your shirt."

Sherlock looks down to confirm this, then joins in with John's shivery snickering. He's warming up, now, so he puts the towel around both of them.

*


End file.
